


Golden Summer

by Alystraea



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Crush, First Kiss, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Prophecy, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5328218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alystraea/pseuds/Alystraea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chance meeting of a young golden-haired maiden of the Rohirrim and a golden-haired elf-warrior of the First Age... just a little summer sweetness, written after two readers requested a story with Éowyn and Glorfindel. [First posted here earlier in 2015]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rescue

Late afternoon. The grassy plains of Rohan. A hot summer’s day.

Her stallion was dehydrated, exhausted, beginning to stagger. . . sides heaving, proud head going down, sides and bit foaming. And yet, valiantly, he struggled to gallop onwards. For love of her.

Over the sound of hooves and the wind in her ears, the harsh, guttural cries of the orcs behind, gaining on them.

The orcs had cut them off from the south, where Edoras lay, and the east, where they had been headed. She rode north and west, hoping that Gesaelig could outrun the orcs. But the foul band of creatures had proven tireless, and her steed, already weary from many hours of travel, could not last much longer.

Around her, the open grassy plains of the land of Rohan stretched away. Far to the north-west, the tall peaks of the Misty Mountains lay on the horizon, the forest of Fangorn crouched at its feet. To the east, the Entwash River, flowing deep and swift.

There was no place of refuge. Nowhere to hide.

Ahead, she thought—imagined?—she saw a gleam of gold and white. A shining white horse riding towards her in the distance, its rider’s hair streaming long and golden in the wind, luminous in the western sun. She blinked as sweat blurred her vision, wondering if it were an apparition from the halls of the dead. Mayhap a warrior of heaven come for the fallen. An omen of impending death.

When the orcish spears struck Gesaelig in the flank and he collapsed beneath her, part of her was relieved that her suffering stallion was put out of his misery. She wondered that the orcs had not done so much earlier, wondered if the foul creatures had been driving her poor beast before them for sport, relishing his agony.

She leapt clear as Gesaelig fell, her heart breaking with grief at the loss of her brave steed. She rolled swiftly to her feet. She had seen, glancing over her shoulder as she had ridden, how many were after her. Seventeen orcs in all.

She was her father’s daughter. They would see how a daughter of the Mark could face death. Drawing her eight-inch dagger out from her white skirts, she turned to face her foes. Her flaxen hair, loosened from its braids, fell gleaming in a damp tangle over her fair white brow and over her shoulders. Her steely grey eyes glinted wild and fey.

“Come then!” she snarled in defiance, her dagger ready as the first orcs neared. _“Eorlingas!_ ” she uttered as a war cry, her young voice ringing with all the pride of her race, even as the first two orcs were upon her.

With all her strength, she slashed and thrust fiercely at their misshapen arms, throats and hands with her dagger, almost suffocating in their foul stench, gasping as their blades caught her shoulder and arms, her forehead and her hands. She fell to her knees, her dagger black with their blood, her white dress stained both black and red.

She heard an outcry of fear and panic from the orcs. She watched, stunned, as black blood spattered over her and two orc bodies fell before her, one decapitated, the other cloven open from neck to guts. She lifted her head and saw looming over her a tall, shining warrior in white, his long hair of gold flowing to his waist. He hovered protectively over her, moving lightly in a blur of swift, fluid motion, the attacking orcs falling with hideous cries, black blood raining as his twin swords sliced through flesh and bone with as much ease as through air.

Soon, the remaining orcs—about a half dozen—screamed to each other and began to flee. She was half-lying on the green grass now, her dagger fallen from her hand, lifting her head with effort to watch the slaughter in awe.

As the orcs fled, the warrior in white set down his weapons, stooped, and lifted her as though she were a small child. She glimpsed intense sapphire-blue eyes blazing with white fire, a face stern and cold and fierce, and for a moment she stopped breathing. For she had never seen beauty as flawless and radiant as the beauty of that face. It could not be mortal. In a single smooth motion, he lifted and slung her effortlessly and lightly onto the back of the white stallion who had been standing nearby, then turned to race after his prey, hair flying bright and golden as the morning sun.

As she sat astride the stallion and clung on to the white mane—for there was not bridle not bit nor even saddle upon that noble steed—she watched the warrior of light pursue the orcs, flying on swift feet over the green grass. Watched mesmerized as the two dazzling blades he wielded arced and thrust through the air; the fleeing orcs, turning to fight, were swiftly slain. The warrior moved with fluid grace—a surreally beautiful dance of death, not a move wasted, one stroke per kill. In less than three of her ragged breaths, all his prey lay still.

The white horse glided with a smooth step to his rider’s side. Black orc blood was spattered on the warrior’s face, hair and clothes. His brilliant aura of light dimmed to a faint shimmer outlining his tall, slender form. He wiped down his swords, sheathed them, and slung them onto his back. He rubbed some black blood off his cheek onto his sleeve as he walked towards his horse. His bright blue eyes, shining still with their unearthly glittering light, were fixed on her.

She stared at him. Through his radiant golden hair, she saw his ears were pointed.

“Am I dying?” she said faintly through her pain, looking at this creature from another world.

He scrutinized her wounds quickly and with keen eyes, his long slender hands moving swift and light from her brow to her shoulder and her arms, examining them carefully. “No, child,” he said reassuringly. “I should hope you will have many years yet before that event.” His voice was low and musical. “They sought to capture, not kill you. Else you would be dead by now.”

“What are you?” she blurted out.

His blue eyes met her grey ones, and for the first time he smiled. Suddenly, he seemed as young as her brother. His face was warm and kind, and his eyes laughed and sparkled. “I am an elf, young maid.” He lifted her gently from the horse and set her on the ground.

“An elf?” she marvelled. “We have heard of your kind. But none have we ever seen here.” Tales of dark sorcery to frighten a child. Yet of this being before her she could feel no fear.

“I ask pardon for trespassing in the Riddermark,” said the elf with a bow. “I am Glorfindel of Rivendell, far north and west of the Misty Mountains.” He searched in the soft woven panniers hanging at the white horse’s sides and took out a flask and a pouch. “I had just come from a visit to an old friend in Fangorn Forest, and was drawn south by curiosity to see your land again. By a happy chance, it would seem, else I would have been far north by now.” He took a clean square of white cloth, and moistened a section of it with a clear liquid from the flask. Gently, he cleaned the lacerations on her forehead, shoulder, arms and hands. It felt cool yet stung like fire. She clenched her teeth against the pain. “These three will need stitches,” he said, looking at her forehead, her left shoulder, and her right forearm. “But we can be thankful none of their weapons were poisoned.” And he began to sing softly in his language as he tended her wounds, alien words that made her think of bubbling brooks and deep forests and rugged mountains and starlight. She felt a coolness, then a warmth, and the throbbing pain of her cuts receded.

She gazed at him warily through these ministrations, sitting still and unflinching.

“You have heard many tales of dark elven magic and my people’s fell spells, I have no doubt,” said Glorfindel. “Be assured that I am only here to help and heal.”

She looked into his clear, solemn eyes. “I have no fear,” she said. Then she saw, on the lower sleeve of his left arm, a tear and a red stain. “You are wounded!” she said in wonder more than alarm, this magical being suddenly human and frail.

“The merest scratch,” he said, barely bothering to glance at it. He wet his finger with liquid from his flask, and slid it over the cut. “Now. If you will allow me, I shall stitch those wounds for you.”

When he offered her another flask to drink from, she hesitated, but those clear, grave eyes were so pure in spirit that she swallowed from it as instructed. It burned warm and sweet down her throat. He pulled out a carefully wrapped needle and thread and began his stitchery, softly singing as he began. She felt tiny pin pricks, and nothing more. She wondered if it was the drink, or his closeness, that made her feel lightheaded.

“What is your name, child?” asked Glorfindel of Rivendell. She was very lovely for a mortal maiden, though her beauty, he thought, was not that of a blossom but of a dancing flame or a shining sword.

“I am Éowyn daughter of Éomund.”

“Will your people search for you? Where shall we seek them?”

“I travel to visit my brother at the eastern marches, but he expects me not for another week. And at Edoras, whence I rode forth this morn, they shall not look for me for two months to come. There shall be none searching for me.”

Looking at him, she continued to wonder at his otherworldly beauty, so different from that of the broad, muscular strength of her menfolk. His face, focused on his work, was intent and almost stern in its expression, his eyes a deep, changeful blue like lakewaters reflecting a summer sky. His face was as smooth as a fine lady’s, with no hint of beard. The hair that spilled over his shoulders and down his back to his waist was of a lustrous gold so glorious, that her own hair, she thought ruefully, seemed to her as dull as the straw that lined the horses’ stalls. His scent was like that of falling rain, of a meadow’s sweet grasses in the summer sun, a clean, fresh scent. For seasons to come, those scents would always conjure for her a tall elf warrior with sky-blue eyes and flowing hair of most radiant gold.

 “Whither will you go then?” he was asking. “To the eastern marches or back to Edoras?”

“East, to my brother.”

“Very well, then. A four-day journey at most, taken easy.” He finished off the last sutures, and bandaged the wounds. “You are a brave lass. No tears, and no whimpers.”

“I felt but the merest pinpricks. My thanks for your skill.”

She then went to where her noble and brave steed lay dead, and stood there in silence. The white rider and his white steed followed behind her. “I am sorry for your loss,” said the elf.

“There were losses far greater than this,” said she, suddenly struck by the enormity of a bereavement and tragedy she had numbed and blocked out till now. “Ceolmund and Rumwold rode out with me this morning, brave men and true. They gave their lives that I might escape.” And suddenly her shoulders shook. “They knew my brother and me since we were born,” she wept into his chest as his strong arms folded around her. “They were my father’s friends, and mine.”

“We shall find them and give them burial,” he said. “They are gone with honour to join Eorl the Young and their fathers in the halls of heroes.”

She emptied the panniers of Gesaelig’s saddle, tied her few belongings in a bundle, and he strapped them to the panniers of his horse, who he introduced to her as Asfaloth. He allowed the daughter of the horse lords to mount Asfaloth herself, with only his hand to give her a step up, before swinging himself lightly onto the stallion’s back.

Night had fallen by the time they finished covering the shallow grave of the two warriors of Rohan, each of whom had felled five orcs at least ere they perished. They were laid to rest with their weapons on their breasts. She was trembling and sick in the stomach by the time it was done, but she would not let Glorfindel do it alone, even when he sternly told her she needed rest for her wounds.

“They died for me. Had I to dig this grave alone with my bare hands, I would.”

He stood by in respectful silence as she laid wildflowers from the fields on the graves. The stars gazed coldly down from a cloudless sky as she sang a lament for the fallen. In the night, his form shimmered faintly as though outlined with starlight, and his hair still gleamed with golden light. In his eyes glittered memories of other deaths, other battlefields.

As she bade farewell, she wept again. He let her cry a while, then gently led her away.


	2. Young and Ageless

They rode east under the stars till they came to the banks of the Entwash.

“Would the ford be about two leagues down?” he asked her.

“I believe so,” she said uncertainly. It was night. The open plains offered her no landmark.

He looked at her. “We shall stop here for the night.” She was swaying from exhaustion. He lifted her down from Asfaloth’s back.

After they dismounted, he said, “Forgive me. You are half-dead with weariness and grief, and I should have noted it earlier. And I forgot your need to eat.” And he presented her with a wafer wrapped in a leaf, and went to fill his waterskin from the river. When he returned, he added two drops from a small glass vial into the waterskin. “To purify it for drinking,” he said, and passed it to her. “Was the wafer to your taste?” For she had finished it.

She nodded, feeling much strengthened. “My thanks.” And she drank deeply of the sweet clean water from the skin. “What of yourself?” she asked, fearing she had eaten all he had.

He smiled. “Elves need not eat as men do. I have enough to last us both a long while, and I can easily forego food for the next week at least.” He looked out over the windswept plains. “Sleep now, child. I will keep watch.” He sat down on the grass, his swords set by his side.

She lay down on the grass not far from him, her bundle pillowing her head. “Why do you call me child? I am seventeen and a woman full grown soon, and you a youth surely no older than my brother who is but twenty-one.”

She saw his blue eyes dance and shine bright as the stars above them, and he burst into a peal of musical laughter. “Ah, daughter of the Rohirrim! Is that how old you think me? Nay. Assay another guess, I pray you.” He rose and took out a cloak from Asfaloth’s panniers and covered her, for the night wind was cold and she looked chilled. She was astonished by the cloak’s warmth despite its thinness

Her grey eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Twenty-five?”

“I am of the elvenfolk, who age not nor pass from the circles this world. I have died once, and live again, and in this form I have dwelt now for. . .” His voice trailed off teasingly, inviting her to guess. He stretched his long legs before him, one knee bent, and leaned back upon an elbow, smiling enigmatically.

“A hundred years?” she ventured, uncertainly.

He laughed again, a joyous sound. “Nay, young one.” He shook his head slowly. He gazed into her grey eyes, and suddenly, in the depths of his star-bright blue ones, she saw a swift passage of ages, a vision of ages of history sweeping over the vast lands of Middle Earth, of wars and heroes, dragons and demons, generations of men, lands reshaped and swallowed beneath the seas. She broke away from the hold of his eyes with a sharp intake of breath, and saw his boyish face suddenly agelessly ancient, weighted with the wisdom and memory of millennia.

“I have seen six thousand years in this second body, and two thousand in my first,” he said, his starlit eyes solemn though a smile still played on his lips.

Her eyes were wide, unable to comprehend so long a time, and indeed still struggling to grasp all he had disclosed of himself.

“I knew the world before sun and moon were made,” he said, looking up at the star-filled sky. “I wandered this valley when it was younger, and fought alongside your forebears when they dwelt still in the Rhovanion. I rode with Eorl the Young, when he first came to the Wold. I must say that you have a great look of your ancestor, daughter of the Éothéod.”

She gazed at him in silent awe.

“Go to sleep, child.” And as he reclined on the grass, he began to sing a gentle song in his own tongue. She drifted off to sleep on the notes of that lulling, lilting song and dreamt of a fair white city surrounded by snow-capped peaks taller than the Misty Mountains.


	3. The Journey East

She was awakened by the sun on her face, and saw him combing his fingers through the resplendent glory of his still-wet hair. His clothes from yesterday lay washed and spread out to dry on the tall, sweet grasses. He was wearing a fresh tunic of a slate grey hue, and his golden hair shone all the brighter against it.

She realized how filthy she was from yesterday, her dress soiled with dirt and blood, her hair matted, her face and hands grubby. She looked down at her blackened nails.

“Would you wish for some time to wash?” he rose to his feet. “I shall walk downwind and be back in about twenty minutes. If there is trouble and you call for me, I will hear.” He left one sword for her on the grass, slung on the other one, turned his back to her and strolled away whistling a cheerful tune, still running his fingers through his shining hair.

He returned with his hair braided back from his face to find her in a fresh dress the colour of cornflowers, struggling to untangle the wet snarls in her hip-length flaxen hair without a comb, and suppressed a smile. He quickly checked on her wounds. They had healed astonishingly fast, and he left off the bandages, but lightly dabbed a thin layer of fragrant, minty ointment over the cuts and stitches.

As they rode south along the river, he sat behind instead of before her for about an hour, singing as he patiently worked through her hair with his long fingers, freeing her tresses from their knots and braiding them for her with skilful hands.

“It is the style of your people, if I recall rightly,” he said, examining his handiwork with a critical eye.

Without aid of a glass, she lifted hands to her head, and was satisfied with what she felt.

An hour after they found the bridge over the Entwash and crossed, they saw another band of orcs heading their way, about fifteen strong.

“Stay,” he said, as much to the horse as to her. And leaping from Asfaloth’s back, he unslung his swords from his back, and ran like the wind to meet the orcs and keep the conflict as far away as possible. The orcs scattered in confusion before his charge. Dodging spears and deflecting arrows with his blades with dazzling swiftness, he chased them down and sought to drive them together and before him much as herders would their cattle, and keep them far from horse and maiden.

When finally the last orc was dead, he returned blood-spattered and whistling. He stopped and frowned when he saw her face.

“Why? What distresses you, child?”

“To be powerless to avenge the deaths of those I love,” she said, her voice angry with helplessness. “To have others defend me, even lay down their lives for me, and stand uselessly by.”

He looked at her. “Do the Rohirrim not train their daughters to defend themselves?”

“To wield a blade, yes, but for sport or play, not for war. It is my lot to sit with the women at home, and spin thread and weave and keep house. To sing the songs of heroes, and be none myself. And someday warm the bed of a lord, and bear him sons to fight in my stead.”

Glorfindel stood quiet and still by Asfaloth, and looked up at her long with his deep blue eyes. “Not so, daughter of the horse lords,” he said. “You may yet show yourself brave in deed, and be sung in the halls of warriors.”

She looked at him disbelievingly. “What deeds for one not allowed to ride into battle?”

“These are dark and uncertain times. Who knows what the future may hold?” He swung himself onto Asfaloth, and said, “Let us be away from here. Two orc bands in two days. A third might yet follow. The Shadow grows.”

The next time they stopped for a rest, after she had eaten a piece of elven wafer, he suddenly took one of his swords still in its scabbard and tossed it to her. Instinctively, she caught it, and looked at him, startled.

“Draw the blade, and show me what you know,” he said. “It is a blade not for practice or sport but for battle. Have a care with it.”

She stood up, and drew the shining blade forth from its scabbard. It was both longer and heavier than the practice blade she was used to. She used both hands and raised it, ignoring the stiffness and pain in her healing wounds.

He smiled approvingly at her stance and her first moves. “You hold it well.” No fear or hesitation. Strong, steady wrists, clean strokes. “A good start. We begin.”

They journeyed slowly over the next three days. He led her repeatedly through a basic drill, his soft, musical voice guiding her, gently positioning wrist, elbow, shoulder or knee at times. Her arms ached fiercely from the weight of his sword, but very soon she felt it an extension of herself, felt a wild freedom and rightness in its power as she swung and wielded it. She felt the touch of his mind, a gentle inner prompting guiding her moves at times. She should have feared this as wizardry and mind control, but strangely she did not.

Then he would draw his other sword. They parried and thrust, defended and attacked, retreated and advanced over the grasses of the Riddermark, he always controlling the pace, watchful not to let her get hurt, their sparring less a duel than a dance.

They sat at night by the light of the stars and a new moon, talking as she nibbled the wafer, not wishing to draw attention with a fire.

“Were you born beyond the sea in Elvenhome?”

“Yes.” And he told of a time before sun and moon were born, when he had dwelled in the light of two trees. He told of two journeys to Middle Earth, one over ice, the other over sea. The music of the great ocean, which she had never seen, was in his voice, and she carried ever after in her mind, unfading, the image of that vast, restless expanse of water, and of two trees, silver and gold, that were no more.

“You must surely miss your home.”

“That I do. But the time draws near for my return. My purpose here is almost done.”

The next morning, she woke as the first rays of the sun broke over the eastern horizon, and saw him standing by Asfaloth with his back to her, changing his tunic. Across the ripple of muscles on his back, she saw the pale lines of many terrible scars criss-crossing his flesh. The illusion of invincibility she had cherished of him from two battles suddenly evaporated. She felt a lump in her throat.

Later, she asked as they rode, “You said elves can perish and live again. How can that be?”

“Elves are not as men are. We are tied to this world and cannot leave it, even if we die, but are reborn. As I have once.”

She felt now familiar enough with him to ask the question she had wondered over since they first met. “How died you in your first life?”

“My city was destroyed, and I was slain as we fled from it.”

He said no more, and she turned her head to look at him.

“I am sorry. It pains you to recall.”

“No. I have recalled it too many times.” His smile for the first time was wry. “There was a fire demon seeking to block the way of escape. I fought it. We slew each other. That was all.”

And unlike other times, when he would spontaneously break into song and tell her a tale of heroes and deeds tragic and glorious, that was all he would say of his feat. He fixed his blue eyes on the horizon ahead and was silent.

They had met no more orcs since that second band. That afternoon, Glorfindel said, “There are six riders of your people in the distance, coming our way.” She stared where he stared, but saw nothing.

He swung himself and her down from the saddle. She turned to look at him in surprise.

“I take my leave of you here, young one.”

“Why stop we here? Let us ride to meet them. Come ye to the East-Mark, and stay to taste our hospitality. Allow my brother and me to repay you in what small ways we can for your great service and kindness.”

“Nay. I must return north to my people. Do not forget what you have learned.”

And her heart was suddenly overcome with impending loss. “I shall not forget.”

“Fare you well, Éowyn daughter of Éomund.” He stooped to kiss her cheek, but she angled her head so his lips met her mouth instead. He paused, but he betrayed no surprise and did not pull the warmth and softness of his lips away from hers. His eyes glittered gravely and looked into hers when at last they parted. Her young grey eyes were wide with shock and wonder at what she had done.

“I am sorry,” she said in a low, quiet voice.

“Do not be.”

When she hesitantly leaned forward and tilted her face up again, he met her halfway. That kiss had all the light and warmth of summer in it, the sweetness of a young maid’s first dream of love, and the magic of far Elvenesse. He kissed her without haste, allowing them both to enjoy the deep, tender exploration of each other’s mouth that sent a hot flush all through her body and made her head light and giddy. She felt herself overcome in all her senses. Along with the moist warmth and pressure and sweetness of his mouth, there was his scent, fresh as rain, fragrant as a sun-kissed meadow, there was the music of the sea in her ears, and clouds of shimmering rainbow light against her closed eyes.  She was dazed when he gently drew away.

“They are here, Éowyn. Go to them,” she heard him softly say.

She opened her eyes and saw through a clearing rainbow mist, six riders small on the horizon, armour glinting in the sunlight, fair flaxen locks and braids gleaming.

When she looked around, her elf warrior and his horse were gone. She turned and stared out across the empty plain, and saw them swiftly riding away, west and north, shining white and gold in the light of the afternoon sun.

 

 


	4. The Shieldmaiden

Seven years passed. A war was fought and won, the Shadow vanquished. In the City of the Kings to the south of the Riddermark, there was great celebration and rejoicing.

One midsummer night in the Citadel atop the city, across the great Hall of Feasts, the eyes of a shieldmaiden of Rohan and an elf warrior met. They walked through the crowded hall to meet each other.

She had forgotten how heartbreakingly beautiful the elf warrior was, as he walked tall and eternally youthful in his long silver-white elven robes, his golden hair radiant in the bright torchlight of the hall.

She was a woman grown now, in the full bloom of a beauty great even by the measure of elves: tall and noble in her flowing white gown girdled with gold, her pale flaxen hair falling unbraided down her back, a circlet of gold on her fair brow. In her face, he saw the grievous trials and great sorrows of those seven years, the glory of her recent victory over a great evil, and the joy of her present bliss.

“Hail and well met, Lady Éowyn of the Rohirrim.”

“Hail and well met, Lord Glorfindel of the elvenfolk.”

“Did I not say once, child, that there would be songs of your valour in the halls of heroes?” He smiled luminously at her.

She smiled back. “I have discovered more. That before that prophecy, you made another. A prophecy at Fornost—that the Black Rider King should fall not by the hand of man.”

“It was a thousand years ere our paths crossed that the first foresight came to me. And so it was that by no man did he fall indeed, but by a valiant maiden of the Eorlingas, beautiful and deadly as a shining blade of steel.” He looked at her curiously with glittering eyes. “And who was it told you this prophecy was mine? If I may assay a guess—a certain wizard once grey?”

“It was indeed Gandalf the White Rider,” she said. And they both turned their heads to look at the white wizard who lifted a tankard of ale in salute to them from a far table.

She turned back to look at the elf warrior. “When you taught me to fight, years ago,” she asked, her grey eyes wondering, “Did you know that it was I who would fulfil your prophecy?”

His eyes were bright like stars, and she saw his enigmatic smile once again. “Perhaps.”

“You never gave me the chance to reward you.”

“To know of your deed and see you victorious and blissful is all the reward I desire.”

She bowed her head to him and smiled. Then, a little wistfully, “So. . . do you sail west as you said of old?”

“That I will, for my people’s time has passed, and we must depart or fade.”

“Sadder will these lands be, and duller, when the magic and light of elvenkind are gone.”

“Not so. For there shall always be the wonder and glory of valiant deeds and joyous hearts and strong spirits among the race of men. How brightly your flames burn, though for but a brief moment. And none shine brighter than the lines of Eorlingas and the men of Gondor.” His brilliant blue eyes turned to look at the great doors of the hall, where handsome, brown-haired Faramir had just entered, and was walking towards his lady, “And I rejoice to see the shieldmaiden and the steward make those two lines one.”

She held out her hand to the elf warrior, and he took it and clasped it, and they smiled a last time into each other’s eyes.

“Farewell,” she said huskily.

“ _Namárië_ ,” the elf lord replied, in the ancient language of Elvenhome, and released her to go to her lord.

As Éowyn walked to Faramir, the white wizard crossed over to his golden-haired friend, and they walked out of the hall onto the terrace that ran down its length.

The wizard pulled out his pipe, lit it, blew a few rings, and elf and wizard looked over the city spread below them, yellow lights glowing in the summer night.

The wizard turned his head to peer at the tall elf lord with his keen eyes. “Why, Lord Glorfindel. . . is that a tear I see?”

The golden lord gave a light laugh. “Your smoke is getting in my eyes, Olórin. Why in Eä you fancy that foul weed no elf shall ever be able to fathom.” He looked at his ancient friend with a gentle smile. “I did not think you a romantic.”

The wizard chuckled. “A golden elf and a golden mortal maid’s chance meeting one fine summer on grassy plains. A prophet’s fortuitous meeting with the fulfilment of his prophecy. If there is romance in destiny, I would say it is Eru Ilúvatar who is the romantic, not I.”

“It was a sweet moment,” the elf conceded, “and it shall not be forgotten.” As the wizard peered into his face, the elf added with a heartfelt sigh. “No, Olórin, those are not tears. Please stop blowing smoke into my face.”

“Come, come, old friend. Let’s drink the night away and talk of balrog slaying.”

“Sentimental old fool,” said the elf affectionately. “You may talk, and I will listen. You know I have spoken of that confounded balrog a hundred thousand times already, and I am quite done with it.”

With a twinkle in his eye, the wizard slapped the tall elf lord on the back, and white and golden they walked down from the terrace into the gardens where music played and the stars smiled down. 

 


End file.
